Mr. Janney agreed to both and in answer to her mother's glance Suzanne said languidly, "Yes, she'd go to-night-there was nothing else to do."

"And he wants you too, Miss Maitland," said Mrs. Janney, turning to the Secretary. "You'll come, won't you?"

Miss Maitland said she would and that it was very kind of Mr. Ferguson to ask her. Mr. and Mrs. Janney exchanged a gratified glance; they were much attached to the Secretary and felt that their lordly circle ignored her existence more than was necessary or kindly. Suzanne said nothing, but the edges of her small upper teeth set close on her under lip, and her nostrils quivered with a deep-drawn breath.

Mrs. Janney gave orders for messages of acceptance to be sent, then sank into a chair, remarking to her husband:

"I'm glad you'll go to the Delavalles. It's to be a large dinner. I'll wear my emeralds."

To which Mr. Janney murmured:

"By all means, my dear. The Delavalles will like to see them."

Mrs. Janney's emeralds were famous; they had once belonged to Maria Theresa. As old Sam thought of them he smiled, for he knew why his wife had decided to wear them. In her climbing days, before her marriage to him had secured her position, the Delavalles had snubbed her. Now she was going to snub them, not in any obvious, vulgar way, but finely as was her wont, with the a.s.sistance of himself and Maria Theresa.

The motor came into view gliding up the long drive and the waiting group roused into expectant animation. Mr. Janney rose, kicking his trouser legs into shape, Miss Maitland gathered up the papers, and Mrs. Janney went to the top of the steps. In the tonneau, her body encircled by Annie's restraining arm, Bebita stood, waving an electric torch and caroling joyfully:

"It's come-it's come. It was sent to me, in a box, with my name on it."

She leaped out, rushing up the steps to display her treasure, Annie following with the mail. There was quite a bunch of it which Mrs. Janney distributed-several for Sam, a pile for herself, one for Suzanne and one for Miss Maitland. They settled down to it amid a crackling of torn envelopes, Bebita darting from one to the other.

She tried her mother first:

"Mummy, look. You just press this and the light comes out at the other end."

Suzanne's eyes on her letter did not lift, and Bebita laid a soft little hand on the tinted cheek:

"Mummy, do _please_ look."

Suzanne pushed the hand away with an angry movement.

"Let me alone, Bebita," she said sharply and, getting up, thrust the child out of her way and went into the house.

For a moment Bebita was astonished. Her mother, who was so often cross to other people, was rarely so to her. But the torch was too enthralling for any other subject to occupy her thoughts and she turned to her grandfather, reading a business communication held out in front of his nose for he had on the wrong gla.s.ses. She crowded in under his arm and sparked the torch at him waiting to see his delighted surprise. But he only drew her close, kissed her cheek and murmured without moving his eyes:

"Yes, darling. It's wonderful."

That was not what she wanted so she tried her grandmother:

"Gran, _do_ look at my torch."

Gran looked, not at the torch at all but at Bebita's face, smiled into it, said, "Dearest, it's lovely and I'm so glad it's come," and went back to her reading.

It was all disappointing, and Bebita, as a last resource, had to try Miss Maitland, who, if not a relation, was always sympathetic and responsive. The Secretary was reading too, holding her letter up high, almost in front of her face. Bebita laid a sly finger on the top of it, drew it down and sparked the torch right at Miss Maitland.

In the shoot of brilliant light the Secretary's face was like that of a stranger-hard and thin, the mouth slightly open, the eyes staring blankly at Bebita as if they had never seen her before. For a second the child was dumb, held in a scared amazement, then backing away she faltered:

"Why-why-how funny you look!"

The words seemed to bring Miss Maitland back to her usual, pleasant aspect. She drew a deep breath, smiled and said:

"I was thinking, that was all-something I was reading here. The torch is beautiful; you must let me try it, but not now, I have to go. I've read the papers to Gramp and I've work to do in my study."

Any one who knew Miss Maitland well might have noticed a forced sprightliness in her voice. But no one was listening; Suzanne had gone and Mr. and Mrs. Janney were engrossed in their correspondence. She stole a look at them, saw them unheeding and, with a farewell nod to Bebita, rose and crossed the balcony. As she entered the house, the will that had made her smile, maintained her voice at its clear, fresh note, relaxed. Her face sharpened, its soft curves grew rigid, her lips closed in a narrow line. With noiseless steps she ran through the wide foyer hall and down a pa.s.sage that led to the room, reserved for her use and called her study. Here, locking the door, she came to a stand, her hands clasped against her breast, her eyes fixed and tragic, a figure of consternation.

CHAPTER III-ANOTHER LETTER AND WHAT FOLLOWED IT

Suzanne, her letter crumpled in her hand, had gone directly to her own room. There she read it for the second time, its baleful import sinking deeper into her consciousness with every sentence. It was in typewriting and bore the Berkeley postmark:

"_Dear Mrs. Price_:

"This is just a line to give your memory and your conscience a jog. Your bridge debts are acc.u.mulating. Also, I hear, there are dressmakers and milliners in town who are growing restive. If there was insufficient means I wouldn't bother you, but any one who dresses and spends as you do hasn't that excuse. Perhaps you don't know what is being said and _felt_. Believe me you wouldn't like it; neither would Mrs. Janney. It is for her sake that I am warning you. I don't want to see her hurt and humiliated as she would be if this comes out in _The Eavesdropper_, and it will unless you act quickly. 'There's a chiel among you takin' notes' and that chiel's had a line on you for some time. So take these words to heart and as the boys say, 'Come across.'

"_A Friend._"

Ever since the opening of the season the summer colony of which Berkeley was the hub had been the subject of paragraphs-more or less scandalous-appearing in _The Eavesdropper_. The paper, a scurrilous weekly, had evidently some inside informer, for most of the disclosures were true and could only have been obtained by a member of the community. Suzanne, whose debts would make racy reading, had quaked every time she opened it. So far she had been spared, and she had hoped to escape by a gradual clearing off of her obligations. But she had not been able to do it-unforeseen things had happened. And now the dreaded had come to pa.s.s-she would be written up in _The Eavesdropper_.

Though her allowance had been princely she had kept on going over it ever since her marriage and her mother had kept on covering the deficit.

But last autumn Mrs. Janney had lost both patience and temper and put her foot down with a final stamp. Then the winter had come, a feverish, crowded winter of endless parties and endless card playing, and Suzanne had somehow gone over it again, gone over-she didn't dare to think of what she owed. Tradespeople had threatened her, she was afraid to go to her mother, she told lies and made promises, and at that juncture a woman friend acquainted her with the mystery of stocks-easy money to be made in speculation. She had tried that and made a good deal-almost cleared her score-and then in April all her stocks suddenly went down.

Inquiries revealed the fact that stocks did not always stay down and rea.s.sured she set forth on a zestful orgy of renewed bridge and summer outfitting. But the stocks never came up, they remained down, as far down as they could get, against the bottom.

She felt as if she was there herself as she reviewed her position.

She couldn't let it be known. She would be ruined, called dishonest; the yellow papers might get it-they were always writing things against the rich. d.i.c.k Ferguson would see it, and he despised people who didn't pay their bills; she had heard him say so to Mr. Janney, remembered his tone of contempt. There would be no use lying to him for she felt bitterly certain that Mr. Janney had told him what her mother gave her. There was nothing for it but to go to Mrs. Janney and she quailed at the thought, for her mother, forgiving unto seventy times seven, at seventy times eight could be resolute and relentless. But it was the one way out and she had to take it.

When no engagements claimed her afternoons Mrs. Janney went for a drive at four. At lunch she announced her intention of going out in the open car and asked if any of the others wanted to come. All refused: Mr.

Janney was contemplating a ride, Suzanne would rest, Miss Maitland had some sewing to do on her dress for that evening. Both Suzanne and Miss Maitland were very quiet and appeared to suffer from a loss of appet.i.te.

After the meal the Secretary went upstairs and Suzanne followed.

She waited until Mr. Janney was safely started on his ride, then, feeling sick and wan, crossed the hall to her mother's boudoir. Mrs.

Janney was at her desk writing letters, with Elspeth, her maid, a gray-haired, st.u.r.dy Scotch woman, standing by the table opening packages that had just arrived from town. Elspeth, like most of Mrs. Janney's servants, had been in her employ for years, entering her service in the old Pittsburg days and being promoted to the post of personal attendant.

She knew a good deal about the household, more even than Dixon, admired and respected her mistress and disliked Suzanne.

The young woman's first remark was addressed to her, and, curtly imperious, was of a kind that fed the dislike:

"Go. I want to talk to Mrs. Janney."

"That'll do, Elspeth," said Mrs. Janney quietly. "Thank you very much.

I'll finish the others myself." Then as the woman withdrew into the bedroom beyond, "I wish you wouldn't speak to Elspeth that way, Suzanne.

It's bad taste and bad manners."

Suzanne was in no state to consider Elspeth's feelings or her own manners. She was so nervous that she blundered into her subject without diplomatic preliminaries, gaining no encouragement from her mother's face, which, at first startled, gradually hardened into stern indignation.

It was a hateful scene, degenerated-anyway on Suzanne's part-into a quarrel, a bitter arraignment of her mother as unloving and ungenerous.